I make this journal to log my journey on The Quest To Eliminate Pumpkin Scat (from my lawn.)

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Conversations from chat explaining my quest:Dozus: Suzod turns into a pumpkin after midnight, so chatting beyond then is impossible/filled with pumpkin talk.Strolen: Pumpkin scat?Dozus: So much of it. Just so much.MysticMoon: Any tips on keeping pumpkins out of the yard? My neighbor's pumpkin keeps leaving scat on mine while I'm at work. Stringy seeds all over the place. It's disgusting.Dozus: On the midnight of a new moon, put a chicken in a burlap sack and strangle it. Bury the sack for three days. After the third day, dig up the sack. When you next see your neighbor, beat him with the sack and tell him to keep his d**n pumpkins in his own d**n yard.MysticMoon: Choke the chicken on the 13th, beat neighbor to death on the 16th. Got it.valadaar: lolMurometz: you can speak things up by doing those in reverseMurometz: speed things upChaosmark: And the bonus is, if you do it in reverse, you don't even have to dig up the chicken.MysticMoon: Wait, I'm confused. How do I dig up the chicken before it's been buried?Murometz: with ZenDozus: Find the tomb of Xbalanque, the legendary hero god of the Maya. Fashion a spade from his glorious skull.Dozus: I'm also told a shovel will work.MysticMoon: Just to be sure, I'll go for the skull of Xbalanque. I have a flight scheduled for Saturday morning and a map some guy off the internet sold me.MysticMoon: If I get it and get back by late Monday, I can dig up the chicken, kill the neighbor and then bury it three days later on the new moon.Chaosmark: Just remember, the tomb is non-Euclidean. It'll take you three circles around the central pillar before you find the true door to the inner sanctum.MysticMoon: Hmm, I'd better print up those non-Euclidean subs to take with me. I can study them in more detail on the flight.Murometz: and if you round enough corners, you'll meet yourselfMurometz: welcome aboard, Friendly Airlines, fight 666 to Xbalanque's Tomb. Please turn off your cell phones and laptops and keep any non-eucllidean reading material in an upright position, as the captain starts his chant.MysticMoon: Meet myself?! I'd never survive!MysticMoon: Can't stand that guyMysticMoon: Wait, did those subs print up on non-euclidean paper? Dammit, how am I supposed to read it now?Dozus: You need 5-dimensional toner.MysticMoon: I think they sell some of that in that strange shop at the end of that alley in the bad part of town. I try to stay away from there because of all that strange chanting they do. Something like "Ph'nglui Mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn."Wulfhere: 5-dimensional toner? My Office Supply place can't keep the stuff I already need instock!MysticMoon: I just hope I can find some before my flightDozus: Office Depot sells a knock-off that's 4-dimensional.MysticMoon: Think it'll work?Dozus: Dunno. How do you feel about endless wailing madness?MysticMoon: Pretty comfortable with it, actuallyDozus: I think you'll be good, then.MysticMoon: Excellent

I went looking for 5 (or at least 4) dimensional toner at the local Office Depot on my way home from work. It wasn't clearly visible and after wandering the store a bit, I finally asked one of the kids at the desk for directions. He was reticent at first until I mentioned Suzod's name and then he quickly showed me to a back corner I had somehow missed (I thought at first he had forgotten where it was because he walked in a curiously circuitous route a few times.)

They don't carry the 5-dimensional brand but they did have 4-dimensional toner. He said I could get the 4+ Premium for only $20 extra and that the screaming would subside quicker than with the regular 4.

Having made my purchase I left the store and went home. I don't recall what I ate for dinner as I was terribly excited to see if the new toner would work better than the last. I printed up parts 1 & 2 of the non-Euclidean geometry subs.

I don't remember reading them. Apparently I screamed and ranted about tentacles and how "it's so dark and cold" for about an hour (I usually only do that for a half-hour after a typical workday, so I didn't mind so much.)

Toner and documents, check!

Almost forgot to mention: my neighbor got another pumpkin today and laughed when he saw me cursing at the mess on the lawn. He won't be laughing in another week!

Don't worry about it, MM -- it's not as hard as a lot of the so-called "industry experts" would have you believe. Once you've desecrated one ancient site of power, it actually becomes pretty routine. If you're still worried about it, I would recommend A Field Guide to Desecrating Ancient Mayan Ruins: 101 Rules, Guidelines, and Best Practices. If I recall correctly (the blackouts make it kinda difficult), it has a special section dedicated to common pitfalls with non-Euclidean geometry, as well. Can't remember the author's name off the top of my head, but I'm pretty sure you can find it in the "special" section of Amazon.

PoisonAlchemist: Man Muro, you boost my confidence and then you just go crush it with a heartbreaking work of staggering genius.Pariah: Don't tell him things like that, if his head gets any bigger he'll float off like a weather ballon :p

PoisonAlchemist: Man Muro, you boost my confidence and then you just go crush it with a heartbreaking work of staggering genius.Pariah: Don't tell him things like that, if his head gets any bigger he'll float off like a weather ballon :p

I first looked for "A Field Guide to Desecrating Ancient Mayan Ruins: 101 Rules, Guidelines, and Best Practices" on Amazon. Unfortunately, the earliest it could be shipped to me was Saturday afternoon; too late for me to receive it in time before my flight at 9am. Distraught, I dug deeply into the dark recesses of the web and discovered a forum frequented by some of the more eclectic amateur archaeologists. A few members had certainly heard of this book. One user, a fellow who goes by MayanProphecy1979, even knew of a collector who would likely own a copy of that very manual, a recluse who, fortunately for me, happened to live less than an hour's drive from my own home.

I emailed the man, letting him know of my situation and how I had been directed to him for assistance. I stressed the urgency of my need for this book and how every part of my quest hinged upon a very short timeframe. Waiting for a response was quite vexing, as I had no other recourse. My attempts at locating an electronic copy via darknet were in vain; I heard only stories of mysterious fires and uncontrollable viruses whenever an attempt was made to scan it.

After a couple of grueling hours, I received a very terse email reply with rough directions to a house in the mountains. Encouraged, I wasted no time in heading out.

The drive was quite long and, I must admit, a bit hairier than I was expecting. I had to drive slowly through the narrow and winding paths. The recent rains had made large potholes in the old and cracked mountain roads. Eventually, even the pavement ended and the closer I got to my destination, the more I feared getting my poor car lodged in some deep, muddy pit.

Breathtaking is the word that describes the vista which greeted me at my journey's end. This recluse, whoever he may be, lives at the very top of a high ridge, with an excellent view of a darkly forested valley. It was late enough at that time for the moon to be up, casting its silvery glow upon the ranks of trees before me, reflected from the waters of a freshly engorged river. The air smelled of damp earth and pine trees.

And his house! A large and sturdy affair, made of great planks of wood expertly crafted and fitted. Redwood shingles adorned the roof. Split level, 3 stories, a stable, barn, and a large detached garage, all clearly illuminated in moonlight. Candlelight flickered through gauzy curtains from several windows.

I don't mind telling you that I stood in awe of it all for several minutes. Who is this man?, I wondered. I still wonder.

When I fixed my step toward the door, I noticed a quick flash of movement behind one of the curtains, poorly illuminated from the side. A cat, perhaps, chasing his flickering shadow? No matter, I thought.

I climbed the wooden steps up to the porch, hearing the loud creaking of old wood as I did so. I approached the door with uncertainty, hoping that my haste had not led me into danger this far from home. The air had chilled more than I expected and I could see my breath cloud before the faint light bleeding through the small windows to each side of the door. My nerves had begun to get the better of me, for when what I had taken to be a small piece of furniture inside one of those windows begin to turn, I gasped audibly. A curtain was flung aside and a face, certainly no more than 4' from the floor, looked up at me. I could see no features, only the rough outline of a head.

I hesitated, not sure if I should knock, since the occupants obviously knew of my arrival, but also seriously entertaining the idea of turning around, getting back in my nice familiar car, and driving away. But, no, I knew that I must see this through if I was ever to have peace at home again.

My courage thus steeled, I raised my fist and knocked upon the door. The face disappeared from the window. Seconds creeped by. Just as I began to wonder at the cold (my hands and nose were already turning numb) I heard a slow shuffling from inside and the door opened with barely a whisper.

The diminutive woman who stood before me must have been more than 100 years old. Her body was framed in a shapeless black dress, her ancient hands held onto a gnarled cane fashioned of driftwood, and her craggy face peered at mine. Her gray hair had been pulled back into a tight bun. I could see that her left eye was missing with the lid sunken over the empty socket. She looked me up and down. I could tell nothing from the severe line of her mouth as I suspected from the creases in her face that that expression was as permanent as could be.

"You are here for the book?" she asked me through an accent that sounded vaguely German.

"The book on the Mayans? Yes. By the way, I am-"

She cut me off with a curt wave of her cane. "It does not matter," she said. "Come in. I get Franz."

She led me down a short hallway to a small sitting room, pointed at a chair upholstered in red velvet, and left. I sat, poised on the edge, back straight. I must say that I was far from comfortable and the urge to flee had never quite left.

Franz appeared in short order. He had dark, disheveled hair, pale, blue eyes, and lips embarrassingly red for a man. He shook my hand absentmindedly and then took a seat of his own.

He told me that he did, in fact, have the book I so desperately needed. He questioned me in detail about my situation and what I proposed to do about it. When the subject turned to the Mayans, he eyes glowed in great delight.

"I have often wished to add the bones of the great Xbalanque to my collection," he said. "But I have had no opportunity to travel so far south." A strange wistfulness crossed his face briefly before he continued. "You say that you only need his skull to fashion this spade? And that you will have no need of it afterward?"

I confirmed this to him.

"Most excellent, indeed," he said. "I will gladly loan you this book if I can in turn ask for a favor. Bring me back as many of the bones of Xbalanque as you are able. In turn, I will not only give you use of this book, but I will introduce you to one of my agents in the area. She will be able to find you guides, equipment, anything you need."

"You are quite generous," I said, astounded at this offer.

He shrugged. "It is simple for me and I would very much like to see these bones."

We talked briefly about some of the local happenings. He seemed oddly informed for someone who lived in so remote a location and who obviously rarely ventured out into the sunlight.

"I should be getting back home," I said after a while.

"Certainly," he said. "I easily forget the time. But, first you must have some tea and meet my daughter, Irena."

I turned in the direction of his gaze and nearly jumped out of my skin. His daughter stood but mere inches from me. So still and quiet did she stand that I would have thought her a statue had I not known better. She must have been no more than 8 or 9 and had the same dark hair and pale skin of her father. Her long hair had fallen across the left side of her face and she wore a simple white nightgown. In her hands were 2 cups of tea, one for her father and one for me.

I tried to recover as well as I could under the circumstances. The warm tea felt good on my cold hands and warmed my belly.

The rest of my evening in that house is... hazy. The warmth of the tea spread quickly, finally thawing out the cold I had felt since coming to the door. But the warmth began to feel wrong and my limbs became quite heavy. I think I tried to stammer out an apology and get up but ended up falling onto the hardwood floor. I have vague memories of his daughter leaping upon my outstretched arm and biting it. I know that I felt only the slightest of tugs.

There are more memories, but they are all quite jumbled and fading and I would rather not delve into them. When the fog cleared, I found myself driving, only a couple of miles from home and with a copy of "A Field Guide to Desecrating Ancient Mayan Ruins: 101 Rules, Guidelines, and Best Practices" in the passenger seat next to me. Later on when I had the strength of will to open it, did I notice a slip of paper with the name Luisa Gonzalez and a phone number written upon it in smudged ink.

What a lovely family! If you decide to really get into the hobby, Moon, Franz sounds like he'd make a great resource. I know you are new to the whole "tomb-raider" scene, but it really is a very rewarding pastime. Glad you were able to get your hands on a copy of that book -- I ordered mine off Amazon, but haven't really been happy with the print quality. I think they used cheap knock-off cowhide in place of the human-leather binding. Receiving an original from an older hobbyist is a rare stroke of fortune.

My wrist was nicely bandaged when I came to in the car last night. I've been afraid to look at the wound. It does itch a little.

I will clean and rebandage it this evening after work. I hope it doesn't slow me down. This evening will be quite hectic as I plan for my flight tomorrow, making certain I have my book and printouts, while also trying to get some sleep before leaving. I am exceptionally tired after my ordeal last night.

What a lovely family! If you decide to really get into the hobby, Moon, Franz sounds like he'd make a great resource. I know you are new to the whole "tomb-raider" scene, but it really is a very rewarding pastime. Glad you were able to get your hands on a copy of that book -- I ordered mine off Amazon, but haven't really been happy with the print quality. I think they used cheap knock-off cowhide in place of the human-leather binding. Receiving an original from an older hobbyist is a rare stroke of fortune.

We will see. I am both frightened and excited at the prospect of my first foray into this hobby. I will know more once I've traversed the jungle and faced the horrors of my first ancient tomb. Even so, I am hesitant to go back into that house. The things I'm remembering...

OTOH, I must say, the book is of exceptional quality. The leather cover is soft and pliable, the wording a deep crimson that really stands out on the yellow parchment. Caligraphy certainly is a lost art these days. And very few people worry about quality materials anymore.

The wound on my wrist appears to be mostly healed. I finally found enough courage to unwrap it. It is, at the moment, a mass of purplish scarring that still itches a bit. The wrist itself is still sore but only when I flex it. Lucky for me, she bit my right arm and not my left.

I managed to pack all of the essentials. I have the map I attained online, the non-Euclidean subs by Forganthus, the book on the Mayans from Franz, and all the other essentials. I have not packed any weapons as I fear I would not be able to fly them into another country. A shame, as I was looking forward to trying out my new butterfly swords. I will, however, see if Franz's contact can at least obtain a kukri for me after I land.

Sleep came swiftly for me last night. My exhaustion from the previous night caught up with me in full force. I vaguely remember seeing Franz and his daughter in my dreams. They were watching me silently. When I looked over and saw them, Irena put her finger to her lips and shushed me. Franz waved. And then my alarm was blaring at me to wake. It took quite some effort to drag myself out of bed in order to make my flight.

What airline are flying with? I know there's only a handful that fly into the darkest parts of the Yucatán rainforest.

I went once. Flew with a small company called Air Quetzal. Their logo - a cheery bright bird - belied the dark, creaking shack of an office at the Ciudad Acuña International Airport. At first I thought I was in the wrong place, some maintenence shed perhaps, but the wiry man in the chair there confirmed I was at the right place. He wore a heavily worn gray workshirt, the kind one finds in a mechanic's shop, with the name "Miguel" embroidered on the breast. When I called him by that name, he glared at me, muttering in what I must assume was Nahuatl. I quickly apologized in my broken Spanish. He only explained that Miguel was his brother, who was long dead.

He flipped through a clipboard and pointed to a hand-written page with my name and flight information. I nodded, afraid to ask how he already knew my name. The man - whose true name I never did learn - picked up a walkie and spoke rapidly. After a very long few minutes, an older man walked into the door, wearing the same sort of shirt. He smiled and greeted me: "Me llamo Santiago. You fly to Yucatán, si?" Relieved, I followed him out the door.

My concern returned as we walked away from the tarmack and onto a dirt path. He chattered on, mostly in Spanish I did not understand, as we walked through the bush. Finally we reached a clearing where sat an ancient looking prop plane - I was certain it was built no later than the '50s, and appeared to have not been painted or well-maintained since. Santiago picked up my bag and frowned - "Too heavy, sir. No fly with all this." With another look at the plane, I happily obliged and removed all but my most essential things. Santiago assured me I would get them back when I returned, but I remembered the look on Miguel's brother's face and resigned myself to never seeing them again.

The plane started with after a harrowing minutes of Santiago trying to spin the propeller and cursing in Nahuatl as it failed. Finally it sputtered to life, roaring with an intensity I cannot describe well. He climbed into the seat in front of me and gave me a wide grin and thumbs up. I forced and smile and nodded. The plane lurched forward, wheels squeaking and creaking, slowly advancing on the "runway" of dirt and loose gravel. Ahead just beyond was a patch of trees and rocks. I prayed fervently that we would avoid it - and we did, but only just. Santiago pulled the plane up and she rose just in time to skirt the treetops.

While the view was brilliant, thrice the engine began to sputter. Only Santiago's curses and punches seemed to keep the engine from failing entirely. I saw the forest below, deeply foreboding and yet beckoning. After a while Santiago shouted something and pointed - our landing site. But where? I saw no towers, no runways, only trees. The engine's roar and my broken Spanish made it impossible to express these concerns, which grew as my pilot seemed uncharacteristically silent and focused as he descended. I began to panic as we came ever closer to the jungle canopy, still seeing no sign of civilization. Just before I could scream the greenery suddenly gave way to a narrow slab of dark concrete, covered here and there in growth. The plane bounced twice, landing abruptly, Santiago stopping just before the end.

I asked my guide about Air Quetzal. Her eyes got very big and she vehemently shook her head.

"Victor plays a very dangerous game out there," Luisa Gonzalez told me in her perfectly enunciated British accent. "They were much safer when Miguel ran the show, but ever since his brother had him killed... No, I would not go anywhere near him if I were you. Your friend is lucky he did not disappear in the jungle."

Now that I've had a chance to get settled for the night, I can post a little more about my day.

Franz's contact has been a lifesaver.

My flight into Mexico was entirely without incident. I spent much of it studying. Non-Euclydian geometry is quite fascinating, although I won't claim to completely understand it. I have gotten somewhat used to reading off of the 4-dimensional printout, but I must say that it tires me out quite rapidly. The tips on desecrating Mayan ruins was an easier read and I found myself taking copious notes, hunched over the notepad in my lap while the book lay open on the tray before me. The woman seated next to me seemed more than a little disturbed by it.

When the plane landed, I did as Franz instructed and called Ms Gonzalez. Speaking perfectly enunciated English with a British accent, she informed me that she was not far away. A driver was sent to pick me up before I'd had a chance to do little more than check messages and let my family know I'd arrived safe and sound.

From a staging area, I was introduced to both Ms Gonzalez and 4 other traveling companions, all rather rough looking locals. Gear was quickly assembled. I noticed that the men all carried machetes and asked after a similar item for myself. Ms Gonzalez smiled and handed me a bamboo box with a hinged lid. Unfolding it, I was stunned to see the very weapons I had wished to take along with me. Sheathed side by side in a single leather scabbard were dual swords, both short and broadbladed, with D-shaped brass guards and a hook over the back of each blade. I'm sure a grin split my face as I buckled on that scabbard.

In addition to the butterfly swords, I was also given a pistol. When she first tried to hand it to me, I explained that I had little experience with firearms; I had, in fact, not touched one since I was a teenager out shooting with friends. She gave me a quick rundown on the basics of this particular gun, a 9mm semi-auto, and then moved on to readying the men.

Shortly before we left, Luisa and one of her men looked over the map with me. They talked back and forth in Spanish for a couple of minutes, I presume deciding on the best route as my skill in the language is sorely lacking. In the end they appeared to come to an agreement and everyone jumped into motion.

We drove to another, smaller airport well outside of the city and jumbled into a prop plane. I can't say the flight was comfortable but I will say that we made good time. At some point I saw the pilot point something out to Ms Gonzalez. She looked worried and responded in a grim tone.

I could see nothing but jungle from our eventual landing point. Little time remained before the sun set. We hiked for another 2-3 hours before coming upon a small compound where I was told we would stay for the night.

At dinner I had the chance to speak more with Luisa. She outlined in rough detail the route we would take in the morning but avoided any questions, pointed or subtle, about Franz. About herself, I learned that she had a British father and a Colombian mother. She had grown up in London but met and married a Mexican gentleman shortly after University. Her exact current line of work remains a mystery, but I did not pry very deeply.

Sometime after midnight, as I readied myself for bed, I was startled at the sound of gunfire. Luisa made a quick appearance, warning me to stay in my room and not to let the map out of my sight. The excitement died down shortly after but I will admit to uncertainty about the quality of sleep I will get this night.

Despite the difficulties of the previous day, the bones of Xbalanque are now in my possession. I shall soon be winging my way to the cold and rainy northwest, toward home and family.

The day was quite harrowing and seemed as though it would never end. I feared for my life (and soul) more than once and my wife will most certainly chastise me for the injuries I have incurred on this quest. But it will be worth it to kiss her sweet lips and face once again, knowing that I am alive and my journey a success.

I will post more details once I have another opportunity. The helicopter has arrived and I am being waved over.

Well done! Novices rarely navigate the Non-Euclidean planes successfully on their first venture, but it sounds like Forganthus's subs on the material were enough of a crash course. I forgot to mention this before you went in, so forgive me, but did you manage to get any pictures? Hobbyists often like to take "before" and "after" shots of the tomb as a kind of keepsake/collectible.